January 2012
6 posts
1 tag
Untitled 8
The pen was never good to you
And you could never rule it the way you wished
It spilled its ink over each word
And contaminated each sentence with curses
None of which could ever fall from your lips
Always held between your teeth.
The pen was never good to you
But you dreamed and hoped it to be
To flow from your fingertips
And paint each word as though it were your doing.
But the pen was...
1 tag
Untitled 7
I’m not. That’s how I began.
Two words with which a simple misunderstanding could change all.
“I am.” But I pause and I wait.
Your heart should skip. “Not.”
Did it? Shh. Listen.
Two simple words with which a world arose.
I’m not. That’s how I began.
But I am, you say. I am everything.
I am you. I am your hope. I am your suicide.
For “I...
2 tags
Untitled 6
Words are not to be stolen. Phrases remain attributed to the speaker of those words. Words that are stolen lose their meaning. Words that are spoken are forgotten and often stolen by those of whom have no meaning but seek it. Words written are not to be stolen and hardly forgotten. Words written are subject to humanity, to history, and occasionally words found too powerful are burned. Words are...
2 tags
Untitled 5
Shards of mirror in your eyes
Reflections of someone
You? No? Or yes?
Perhaps, you say
And touch your ear
The shards of mirror they move.
You? No? Or yes? Perhaps.
Different, you say
Too different to be me.
Then who?
Je ne sais pas.
The thread on her dress
It’s cut. Snipped. Unbound.
I’m bound.
Who’s bound?
You? No? Or yes?
The shards of mirror fall from your...
3 tags
Untitled 4
The fabric of those words
Those tales spin like silk
You cut them short when you feel fit.
And add them on elsewhere.
Just one snip.
Ties cuts.
Bound by string.
As those tales grow
Sharp and quick and nimble
Your audience is starry-eyed
And you’ve fooled them all
Oh, you’ve fooled them all
With just one snip.
Ties cut.
Bound by string.
3 tags
Untitled 3
Your thoughts always linger
And your audience holds their breath
Meandering on a word
Inhaling the scent of your cigarette
Watching as your smoke engages in a waltz with the wind
Who are you?
Really?
You never look in the mirror
You don’t need to
Or perhaps you’re afraid what you’ll see
And maybe a cold blue glance into yourself
May cease that suicide
Of your mind
Of...
December 2011
2 posts
2 tags
Untitled 2
We talk like poetry
But our voices hold no meaning.
And our faces fade into the text.
“How are you feeling?”
But we talk like poetry.
So you say.
You never say much.
We talk of meaning
in poetry of all things
Where voices hold meaning
So we think
“How are you feeling?”
“ça va”
So you say
As if French may mean more.
I want to find meaning
by...
2 tags
Untitled 1
Sometimes you sigh for no specific reason. A breath dances on the chilled air and your eyes follow it until the sigh slowly evaporates. It lingers for a moment to materialize, and then disappears. For no specific reason, it disappears. Then, your lips meet the cigarette and you inhale your suicide, not because you wish to die, but because you can. It doesn’t make sense to you, does it?
...